


Not If It's You

by volcanogirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Forced Pregnancy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, Naga Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Questionable Snake Anatomy, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volcanogirl/pseuds/volcanogirl
Summary: Living on Earth has always come with a price for Crowley, a dark secret that he never lets anyone see when it ravages his body once every hundred years. Now that he and Aziraphale are married, though, he can't hide the truth anymore. Aziraphale just wants to help in any way he can, but in order to do that, he'll have to earn Crowley's trust.Or: Three times Crowley lays eggs, and three times Aziraphale helps him through the difficult pregnancy and labor.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 159





	1. 2070

**Author's Note:**

> This one is too weird for my main account, so here you go! I'm ... not sure how this happened, tbh.
> 
>  **Dead Dove: Do Not Eat** extremely applies (read the tags!!!). Graphic egg-laying ahead. Ye be warned.
> 
> For those who do read, I hope you have an eggcellent time. <3

Crowley is in the garden when the first pang hits him.

It’s a familiar jab, like a tiny lightning bolt, on the lower left side of his abdomen. It’s fleeting, gone in an instant. It’s also unmistakeable.

He sets down his watering can and drops to a chair, holding his head in his hands. He always dreads this, but now it’s more complicated than usual. In centuries past, he could lay low. Find a secluded spot where no one would bother him and wait for the misery to pass.

But now he’s married, and he and Aziraphale have shared their cottage on the coast for the last fifty years. It’s been as wonderful as a dream to live here together, to be present in each other’s lives all the time.

Which means it’s going to seem really odd when Crowley suddenly wants time apart.

There’s no easy way to tell Aziraphale what’s happening. There’s also no easy way to lie to him about it. But either way, Crowley has to say something soon. He doesn’t have much time.

Chest heavy with dread, he finds his husband reading by the open window in his study.

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, setting his book aside. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Crowley forces a polite smile and sinks into an adjacent sofa. “Sorry to disturb.”

“Nonsense. What’s on your mind?”

Aziraphale can always tell, somehow, when Crowley has something he needs to say.

“I’m thinking,” he starts with a sigh, “about spending some time away. In the city, maybe, or a few cities. Just a month .... and then I’ll be back.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale answers, looking understandably puzzled. “Are you feeling restless here?”

“No,” Crowley says, and then he thinks better of it. “Well, yes. I suppose I am.”

Aziraphale hums, and his face betrays the tiniest hint of hurt. Crowley hates this.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, standing and coming over to sit beside him, “if this is something you want to do, that’s perfectly fine. I’ll be here when you return. But if something is bothering you .… anything at all, please tell me.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and squeezes it, and all at once, Crowley’s vision swims. He tries to look away, but he knows Aziraphale has already noticed his distress.

“Oh, darling, what is it?” Aziraphale asks, scooting closer.

Crowley shakes his head. “It’s bollocks, what it is. Demon … shit. It’s, ugh, like a cycle of sorts.”

Aziraphale waits patiently for him to continue, saying nothing. Crowley shifts to face him.

“Once per century, my body goes through a … phase. It’s disgusting. Mortifying. I’ve always done it in private, and I mean to continue. I couldn’t bear for you to see.”

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale says softly, stroking his back. “I had no idea. Is there anything more you can tell me?”

The words Crowley has never spoken aloud, never shared with _anyone_ , come spilling out much more readily than he expected.

“I ovulate,” he blurts out. “Within the next few weeks, rubbish snake eggs will grow inside me, and I’ll swell, and then when they’re at full size I’ll have to .… expel them. It’s a hideous process, all of it. Miserable.”

More tears are falling now. He never wanted Aziraphale to know, but speaking the truth brings an odd relief.

“Good lord,” Aziraphale says in surprise, and then he seems to remember himself. “Crowley, I’m sorry if you ever thought you couldn’t tell me about this. Are the eggs .… do they hatch?”

“No,” Crowley answers quickly. “Complete, utter rubbish, with nothing but toxic sludge inside. There’s no point to any of it aside from my own torment. It’s the price I pay …. for living on Earth. For having a body. A fine print, of sorts.”

“How awful,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley just nods and wipes his face.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Aziraphale says, slipping an arm around his waist. “Whatever you need to do is perfectly fine with me. But I just want you to know that you don’t need to leave. You can stay here, in our home, and I’ll give you as much space as you like. And when the day comes for your …. expulsion, I’ll leave you to it. How’s that, hmm?”

Crowley takes a second to think. It’s a pretty appealing thought, but it means Aziraphale will have to see the physical changes. The pregnancy.

“I just hate the thought of you going through all the trouble to hide away somewhere,” Aziraphale adds. “When you could be perfectly safe and isolated here.”

Crowley sighs. “It’s not a bad idea. I just. You have to understand that I’ll be very unlike myself. Deeply uncomfortable. And the …. swelling. It’s pronounced. Obvious. Hideous.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, running a hand over his hair. “I would never think you hideous, no matter what. And the notion that you’ll be unwell makes me less keen on you leaving. Please stay. I’ll be here if you need me, and I’ll keep my distance otherwise.”

Reluctantly, Crowely agrees. “Alright. But, angel, promise me that if it’s ever too much for you, you’ll tell me. I’ll completely understand if you need—”

Azirapahle cuts him off by kissing him. “I promise .… that you could _never_ be too much for me.”

He smiles, then, and touches Crowley’s shoulder, looking a bit sentimental.

“In fact, may I admit something?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley nods, curious.

“I’m honestly a bit relieved. I thought for a moment that you might be unhappy with me or some part of our life here.”

“Oh, angel, no,” Crowley says, kissing him this time. “Not at all. Never. I was … dreading leaving, to be perfectly honest.”

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale says, pulling him into an embrace. “You’re home.”

~~~

Over the next week, Crowley attempts to keep his distance from Aziraphale, but in their new married life, it doesn’t come naturally.

His stomach has swelled considerably with the forming eggs, so he’s taken to wearing loose tops to disguise it.

When Aziraphale appears and sets a cup of herbal tea beside him, Crowley finds that he doesn’t really want him to leave. When he returns later with a comb and offers to brush Crowley’s hair, Crowley can’t object to that, either. And when Aziraphale finds him retching after a particularly bad spasm and wordlessly starts to rub his back, Crowley relaxes at the soothing touch.

Crowley can see that Aziraphale really wants to look after him, and little by little, he lets him. He’s uneasy all the while, to think that Aziraphale is witnessing this, but on the other hand, it’s admittedly a marked improvement over any other time he’s endured this.

He’s lying on a lounge chair in the back garden, basking in the sunlight—something he’s rarely enjoyed in this state, when he’d usually sequester himself—when another pang takes hold. Abruptly, his relaxation screeches to a halt and he’s whimpering and writhing, holding his side and burying his face into the fabric of his headrest.

It must be by design, he always assumes, that the formation of the eggs is so agonizing. It’s so that he can’t forget for more than a few minutes what his body is producing, what he will have to suffer a short time from now. It’s Hell’s way of saying: _This body is not your escape. You belong to us._

Panting and groaning, and twisting this way and that, Crowley doesn’t notice that Aziraphale has sat down next to him until he’s rubbing his back again.

“Can I do anything? Can I help?”

Crowley can only whine in reply and shake his head.

“My poor dear.”

The spasm passes, and Crowley’s breathing evens out again, leaving him limp and tired in its wake.

“I hope I’m not overstepping,” Azirphale says, withdrawing his hand. “I heard you from the kitchen, and I couldn’t bear not to come to you.”

Crowley sits up, then, and leans into him, resting his temple against his husband’s chest. Aziraphale’s arms are promptly around him, holding him close. He wants to say so many things— _I hate this. I miss you. I’m sorry._ —but none of them are quite right. Aziraphale’s warm embrace and his angelic scent are stark reminders that they’ve passed a full week now without being intimate, and the thought brings up a warm desire across Crowley’s skin.

He raises his head and kisses him, because he can’t not. Aziraphale returns the affection readily, perhaps gratefully.

For a blissful moment, Crowley is swept up in the thought of making love again, as they normally would, until the reality of his body comes crashing down on him. The mental image of his nude form, with his veiny, swollen gut, disgusts him to his core, and the idea of Aziraphale seeing—or _touching_ —it is enough to make him recoil from the kiss itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, seeing his husband's concern.

“Oh, darling, you don’t need to apologize to me. Just tell me what you need.”

Aziraphale takes his hand, waiting patiently for an answer, but Crowley can only avert his blurry eyes.

“I think I just need some time alone,” he mumbles, turning away to curl up on the lounge chair again.

“Of course, dear,” comes Aziraphale’s calm response, though Crowley suspects he’s masking some despair.

~~~

Aziraphale tries just about everything he can think of to help his husband without being too overbearing. He makes tea, which Crowley sips but rarely finishes, likely because he has trouble keeping anything down when the retching takes hold. A few times, he manages to rub his back or comb his pretty hair, long enough now to touch his shoulders, and Crowley clearly enjoys it, but he can’t seem to look Aziraphale in the eye afterward. Like he’s ashamed.

Aziraphale so deeply wishes he could ease that shame, to somehow show Crowley that it’s safe to trust him with this. It hurts Aziraphale’s heart to think that his husband has endured all this alone for so long. But it’s for that very reason that he must tread with caution. If he’s going to earn Crowley’s trust, he can’t push too hard.

A week and a half into Crowley’s pregnancy, Aziraphale decides he should make it as simple as possible for Crowley to come to _him_.

In the morning, while Crowley tends his plants, Aziraphale makes a point of being in the kitchen where Crowley can see him through the window. Since he passes much of the day in his study, he repositions his desk to be visible from the open doorway and places Crowley’s favorite chair just beside it. In the evenings, Aziraphale takes to the living room sofa to read, leaving enough space beside him that Crowley might lie down.

Sometimes, from the corner of his eye, Aziraphale notices Crowley watching him, and so he lifts his gaze to look back and gives him a fond smile. Crowley tries to smile back, but he looks acutely miserable, sometimes nervously fluffing his oversized top or looking quickly away again.

With patience, the strategy eventually pays off. One evening when Aziraphale is reading on the sofa, Crowley appears in the doorway, hesitant at first, but then he comes over and takes the spot beside him, reclining and resting his head on Aziraphale’s lap, just as he used to do when he was well.

Aziraphale sets his book aside at once and begins running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, then petting his neck and shoulders, making sure not to touch any lower. He had offered some days ago to apply a soothing balm to Crowley’s growing stomach, hoping that it might help put him at ease, but poor Crowley had become panicked and then physically ill at the very notion. Message received.

Basking in having his husband close by again, Aziraphale continues running his fingertips across Crowley’s arms for a while.

Suddenly, Crowley’s body jerks, and he takes hold of Aziraphale’s thigh with one hand, burying his face in his lap and whining in pain, muttering _not again_ through his teeth. Aziraphale says nothing, but slips his hand into Crowley’s where he’s awkwardly gripping Aziraphale’s trousers, and his grasp readily transfers.

After some time, the pain seems to pass, and Crowley relaxes against him again, sighing. Aziraphale hopes he’ll stay longer, and he lets his emotions project as much, silently letting Crowley feel how adored and protected he is. It takes considerable effort to direct his emotional palette enough for Crowley to feel; the exchange is dulled between an angel and a demon. But he hopes he can detect it, even if it’s just a whisper.

“I’ll be myself again after this is over,” Crowley says, breaking the silence. “It’s just one rotten month per century.”

His tone is reassuring, apologetic, like he’s most concerned about how this is affecting Aziraphale.

“Darling,” Aziraphale starts, clearing his throat. “I understand it’s only temporary. I just wish I could do more to help you now.”

“You are helping,” Crowley says softly. “This is better than before.”

Those words spark a flicker of hope.

“I’m glad,” Aziraphale responds, wanting to say so much more and stopping short.

~~~

In the week that follows, the space between them waxes and wanes. Sometimes, Crowley seems to be more comfortable, coming to him and requesting that Aziraphale brush his hair or fix some tea. Aziraphale can tell, of course, that Crowley is mostly doing this to reassure Aziraphale that everything is fine, but he jumps anyway at every chance to care for him. Other times, though, Crowley withdraws again, and they spend whole days apart in their cottage.

On one such day, nearly three weeks into Crowley’s pregnancy, Aziraphale has a lightbulb moment. He miracles a large bathtub into their washroom, adds a cozy bath pillow, and fills the tub with warm water, sprinkling in some herbs for aromatherapy. It’s deliciously inviting, or so he hopes.

He finds his husband upstairs in an extra bedroom, on all fours, weeping through rapid breaths.

“Crowley?” he tries, keeping his distance.

“Just a minute,” comes the strained response.

Aziraphale can tell the pain is getting worse, now, and happening more frequently. He steps back from the threshold, resisting the overwhelming need to rush forward and help his husband.

After the longest five minutes of Aziraphale’s life, Crowley calls back, much calmer now, “What is it?”

“Darling,” he starts, stepping inside and keeping his voice steady, “I’ve drawn a bath for you. I thought the warm water might help. It’s all ready in the downstairs loo.”

Crowley is lying down on the floor now, just where he was before.

“Could I take you there?” Aziraphale asks after getting no response.

Crowley gives him a look, sad and pleading. Aziraphale’s heart sinks.

“No obligation,” he adds. “Just a thought.”

“It’s a nice thought,” Crowley says, sitting up. “I’ll .… go on my own.”

When he stands though, it seems to cause a new pang, and he doubles over, crumpling to his knees again.

“Fuck,” he mutters in angry frustration. “Every time I move.”

Azriapahle suddenly understands why Crowley has become so reclusive. On impulse, he moves to Crowley’s side and gently gathers him into his arms before he can protest, holding him in a bridal carry, then swiftly transports them to the loo where the steaming bath is waiting.

“Can I place you in? Is that alright?” he asks.

“Yes, but,” Crowley starts, wincing. “I don’t want you to see. I know it’s ridiculous—”

“I understand. You can vanish your clothes after I leave.”

With great care, he eases Crowley into the bath, making sure he’s situated before withdrawing his arms from the water and sitting in a chair he placed next to the tub.

“Oh,” Crowley says, leaning into the cushion, his brow no longer furrowed.

Crowley doesn’t seem to notice, but his loose top floats up in the water, exposing his torso. It’s the clearest glimpse Aziraphale has had of Crowley’s swollen abdomen, round and rosy and covered in dark, angry veins. The sudden sight of it doesn’t bother Aziraphale in the slightest, but he quickly averts his eyes in respect of Crowley’s wishes.

“How’s this?” he asks, directing his gaze back to Crowley’s face and touching his cheek.

“It’s really nice, actually,” Crowley says, and he’s even smiling a little. “I never thought of—”

Just then, Crowley realizes how exposed he is and scrambles to wrench his top down. The fabric just wants to float again, though.

“Bollocks,” he mutters, defeated. “Sorry …. I know it’s hideous.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “You don’t need to apologize to me. I truly don’t mind seeing. I could never find any part of you hideous. I want to help you.”

“I know you do,” Crowley says. “I know. It’s not that I don’t want …. I just. Ugh.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to think of me differently after this, alright? I want everything to go back to normal.”

“Do you think me so delicate? Or our bond so fragile?”

“No,” Crowley says rubbing wet hands over his face. “It’s just disgusting ... _mortifying_. I hate it. Every time, I hate it. I never even tried the balm you gave me because _I_ can’t stand to look or feel it.”

“My love,” Aziraphale says, his voice catching. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you have to experience this, just as I’m very sorry that you were ever afraid to tell or show me. But please know, there’s nothing about this that could _ever_ change the way I feel about you. You mean everything to me. I love you.”

He leans forward to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead.

“I love you, too,” Crowley responds. “If I knew of anything more you could do, I would ask. But there’s no way out of this. I just have to deal with it.”

“You don’t have to do it alone, though,” Aziraphale points out, and he hopes it’s not the wrong thing to say. “I’m here for you.”

Crowley holds his gaze for a moment and then looks down, sighing and vanishing his wet clothes away, lying naked in the tub. His cheeks and ears flush scarlet.

Aziraphale can only imagine the courage it takes for Crowley to willingly expose himself like this, and he wants to reinforce everything he said before. He takes Crowley’s hand where it’s grasping the edge of the tub and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his damp skin.

“I missed you,” Crowley says softly. “All the days I stayed away, I missed you.”

“Oh, darling. Me too.”

Crowley gives his hand a squeeze before letting go.

“The bath is nice,” he says. “Thank you.”

“I’m so glad,” Aziraphale responds.

~~~

Hot baths become a standard part of Crowley’s routine, since it’s the one thing that brings him a tiny bit of relief. In the fourth and final week of his pregnancy, nothing else eases his discomfort—not even lying in the sun. Something about the way the water surrounds his body does help, though, and he’s increasingly grateful for Aziraphale’s suggestion.

He also can’t shake his mixed feelings about all this.

He keeps wavering between being glad that Aziraphale is there to help him and debilitating humiliation at what he’s allowed him to see thus far. Before now, no one else has ever witnessed this process. Crowley always made sure of that. He had sworn to himself that no one would ever know. But now someone does, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise.

Crowley can’t wait for this to be over.

As Aziraphale helps him out of the bath one day and starts to wrap a towel around him, Crowley flinches as the fabric moves across his taut belly.

“Oh,” Aziraphale remarks, “sorry. Is it very sore?”

Crowley nods. “At this point, it’s a bit like a bruise .… or a burn. Perhaps both.”

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale says in sympathy, draping the towel across Crowley’s shoulders instead.

After Crowley dries himself, he dresses in the soft pyjama set Aziraphale bought for him, designed specifically for a pregnant body, which is something else Crowley has never tried before. They are, admittedly, far more comfortable than his regular clothes.

He sighs in relief, and they go together to the sofa. When they sit, Aziraphale is giving him an odd expression—timid, almost.

“Crowley,” he starts, somewhat nervously, “I want to ask you something. I’ve asked before, and it wasn’t the right time, and so if your answer is still no, that’s perfectly fine.”

“What is it?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale retrieves a jar of salve. At once, Crowley understands, and his first instinct is to recoil, but he also doesn’t want to move around too much, so he keeps himself frozen.

“This one has numbing properties,” Aziraphale explains. “I think it might bring you some comfort, if you’re alright with it. I’ll be very gentle. You could close your eyes while I apply it, so you don’t have to see.”

Crowley is reluctant, but the idea of the salve sounds surprisingly appealing, and he can see that Aziraphale is keen on trying this. Maybe it’s a moment of weakness or he’s not thinking straight after the relaxing bath, but he nods.

“Alright,” he says, with a sigh.

Aziraphale’s cautious expression shifts into one of elation, and he scoots closer on the sofa and presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek.

“Now, if it’s unpleasant at all, say so and I’ll stop at once,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley bitterly chuckles at that. “If it’s unpleasant, you’ll know.”

With that, he relaxes into the couch, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes as Aziraphale suggested. Shortly, there comes the sensation of Aziraphale carefully lifting his top away from his belly. The first touch of his fingers is feather-light, and Crowley jumps in surprise at the sensation.

“Oh, goodness,” Aziraphale exclaims, alarmed, pulling his hand away.

“Are you _trying_ to tickle me?” Crowley asks. “Not quite so light.”

“I see. Sorry. Trying again.”

The second time is better, as Aziraphale rests his whole palm flat against Crowley’s skin, slowly smearing the salve across a wider space. The touch is surprisingly pleasant.

“How’s that?” Aziraphale asks.

“Fine,” Crowley says. “Fine so far.”

Encouraged, Aziraphale continues, applying more salve, and Crowley is amazed at how _good_ it feels. He’s always hated touching his stomach in this state, hated how the tight skin and puffy veins felt beneath his fingers, and hated how strange and abrasive his hands felt on the tender skin. But with the smooth salve, Aziraphale’s hands glide across the surface with ease, never pressing too hard, and the effect is wonderfully calming. Crowley can’t help but lose himself to it for a few minutes.

“Still fine?” Aziraphale asks after a while.

“Yes,” Crowley says, pulled out of his zen. “That’s … that’s really nice. I didn’t know it could be that nice.”

“Oh, darling, I’m so glad to hear that.”

After Aziraphale has applied the salve twice over, he gets Crowley’s top resituated in place and moves to embrace him from the side, slipping one arm behind his waist and the other across his chest. Crowley turns his head and kisses him.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Of course. Anytime you like.”

Weary, Crowley moves to lie across Aziraphale’s lap, as has become a habit, letting his legs stretch out on the couch beside them. Aziraphale starts to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley is promptly asleep.

He wakes up not long after to a new flash of pain, but it’s not a terrible one in this late stage of the pregnancy. With the eggs fully formed, there are fewer growing pains and more mild “shifting around” pains. Still, it’s enough to make him grit his teeth until it passes.

“You alright?” Aziraphale asks, rubbing his arm.

Crowley nods. “Fine.”

“I’d like to ask you something else,” Aziraphale says, still rubbing, “if this is a good time.”

“Sure,” Crowley says with a shrug, mildly curious at what sort of spa treatment Aziraphale has up his sleeve next.

“I wonder if,” Aziraphale starts and stops. “Well. I know it’s not what you .… Oh, this isn’t coming out right.”

Crowley shifts to look up at him, vaguely amused. “What?”

Aziraphale sighs, petting Crowley’s hair. “Darling, it’s just .… knowing how awful this is for you, I hate to think of you enduring the delivery all alone. I wonder if you’d let me help you then, too.”

At that, Crowley snaps to a sitting position.

“No!” he says, aghast.

“Please,” Aziraphale says, “just consider it. I’ll respect your need for privacy if that’s what you ultimately decide, but I want you to know that I’d much prefer to be there with you.”

Crowley looks away, angry tears blurring his vision.

“I don’t mean to pressure you,” Aziraphale adds. “I only—”

“Want to help,” Crowley says, more bitterly than he intends. “I know. But you don’t understand, angel. You can’t understand .… how bad it is.”

“Then tell me,” Aizraphale says. “Help me understand.”

Crowley gives him a look. He finds Aziraphale looking sadly back.

“It’s one thing for you to see this,” Crowley says. “But the _expulsion_ isn’t like this. I have to half-transform, shift my legs into my serpent tail, beforehand, because it’s too much for this body to handle. I learned that the hard way, a long time ago. Nearly discorporated. The eggs are large, and the process is slow and miserable. I can’t … I can’t let you see me that way.”

Aziraphale seems to process that information.

“Hypothetically,” he starts, frustratingly, “if I were there beside you, that would actually _increase_ your discomfort?”

Crowely gives him a look. “You’re being obtuse.”

“I’m not! I’m genuinely trying to understand. I’m not afraid of this. I’m not afraid to see it. I’m far more uncomfortable with the thought of leaving you alone through what you yourself describe as the most difficult and painful thing you’ve ever felt. You’re my husband, now. I’d do anything for you, Crowley.”

“Including staying out of this?” Crowley snaps, more harshly than he intended.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, firmly.

Crowley shifts in his seat from a mild pang, attempting to get the damned eggs to settle. When he lets himself consider Aziraphale’s offer—if he imagines his husband’s sweet arms around him while he labors—the thought is honestly not _unappealing_. But then he thinks of Aziraphale hearing his pathetic cries of pain, and any appeal evaporates.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, scooting closer and taking his hand. “Here’s what I’m trying to say: I don’t need you to _protect_ me from this. If you’re _worried_ about how it will affect me, I’m begging you not to be. But if that’s not it at all, and you genuinely _need_ solitude, for your own safety and comfort, say the word, and I’ll consider it settled.”

All at once, Crowley’s eyes swim with new tears. He’s been crying a lot lately, he idly reflects. And he can’t dispute anything Aziraphale is saying: He _is_ mostly concerned about Aziraphale’s reaction. Him being there certainly wouldn’t pose an inconvenience of any sort. Taking a firm grip of Aziraphale’s hand, he relents for the second time tonight.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll try it your way.”

Aziraphale blinks in surprise. “Really?”

Crowley shrugs. “There’s no such thing as comfort while it’s happening, so you being there really couldn’t make things any worse than the usual, eh?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, somewhat sympathetically.

“It’s awful, though, alright? Just be prepared for that. Whatever you’re imagining, it’s worse.”

Aziraphale nods once. “Understood. No pearl-clutching here.”

Crowley sighs, attempting to trust the fact that he’s made his husband happy by agreeing. He hopes he won’t regret this. He hopes _Azirphale_ won’t regret this. But mostly, he’s just looking forward to getting it over with.

~~~

Aziraphale creates a soft nest for Crowley with great care, using many soft blankets and towels arranged in a temporary pit he’s miracled into the floor of the den. He tries lying in it himself several times, to ensure that it’s cozy enough. He wishes, as always, that there were more he could do. He wishes he had a better idea of what to expect, so that he might anticipate ways to help Crowley. But he’ll have to see for himself and decide in the moment.

Crowley says there’s no helping him, that the experience is miserable no matter what, but Aziraphale is nothing if not optimistic. He believes, unwaveringly, that he’ll find a way to make it less horrible. Even if it’s not this time, perhaps for the next century.

The time comes one afternoon when Crowley is lounging in his bath, water rippling as he shifts this way and that, having trouble finding a comfortable way to lie. Abruptly, he sits bolt upright.

“Oh,” he says, gripping the edges of the tub. “It’s happening. They’re moving down. Finally.”

Aziraphale helps him out of the bathtub as usual and then transports them over to the nest. Crowley has only seen it briefly, when he looked in to see what Aziraphale was doing and then left again, so it’s mostly new to him.

“Listen,” Crowley says, dropping to sit in the blankets. “I want you to know: If you decide you need to leave, I’ll completely understand. Truly. Don’t feel like you have to be here if it’s too much.”

Aziraphale nods, knowing there’s zero chance of that happening. “And if you decide you need me to go, say the word.”

Crowley nods, too. “I guess there’s no delaying the inevitable.”

With that, he transforms his legs into a snake tail, so that he’s standing before Aziraphale as a naga—the shiny scales, black and scarlet, start just below his swollen stomach.

“How lovely,” Aziraphale remarks.

Crowley gives him a look and settles down. “It’s going to be a while.”

For the next several hours, Aziraphale alternates between rubbing Crowley’s back, wiping his brow, and holding his hand when he’s writhing and crying out in pain. When the spasms take hold, Aziraphale can see the skin of Crowley’s stomach shifting and rippling, though he doesn’t comment on this.

At one point, he also notices that the cloaca, situated at the front of Crowley’s tail in place of human genitals, has begun to gape and bulge a bit, revealing rosy tissue within the slit. In its engorged state, it looks strikingly similar to a human vulva, in contrast to the reptilian scales surrounding it. Crowley’s anatomy is incredibly fascinating, but Aziraphale doesn’t comment on that, either.

“They’re getting close, aren’t they?” he asks.

Crowley nods, panting. “Not much longer before the first one.”

With his face buried in blankets, Crowley’s body trembles each time he bears down, gasping for labored breaths in between, and after several times, the smooth scales around the opening are bulging much more, with the pronounced shape of an egg, and then, Aziraphale spots the small sliver of a pale eggshell within the folds of tissue.

“Oh, I see it!” he exclaims.

“Fantastic,” Crowley hisses bitterly through his teeth.

Aziraphale can’t help but smile; he takes it as a good sign that Crowley’s sarcasm is still intact.

As more of the egg emerges, the sliver becoming several centimeters of visible shell, Aziraphale can’t help but watch, looking away only when Crowley pauses and sweeping hair out of his face or rubbing his shoulder and reassuring him. When the egg has reached a crown position, filling the full width of the opening and stretching it taut, Aziraphale imagines that he could assist in getting it free if he placed his hands on either side and helped ease Crowley’s skin away from it. But it seems too soon to try that, to touch him there, on the very first egg, so he sticks with observing.

“You’re so close now,” he says. “One more time should do it.”

Crowley nods, takes a breath, and promptly begins pushing again, apparently encouraged by that information. And indeed, the egg springs free and falls to the soft blankets below, leaving Crowley gasping and panting in relief, and the swollen snake vulva receding a bit.

“There it is!” Aziraphale says, happily taking the egg up in his hands.

It’s close to ostrich egg size, with a pale grey spotted shell, and though it does smell faintly sulfuric, it doesn’t look like an evil thing at all. In fact, it’s rather pretty.

“How beautiful,” Aziraphale remarks.

“Angel,” Crowley says in alarm, apparently having just opened his eyes. “Don’t let it crack. Don’t handle it too much. The fluid inside is caustic, it’ll burn you. They’re basically weapons. Put it away and I’ll deal with them later. ”

“Alright,” Aziraphale agrees, turning and using a few spare towels to create a smaller nest that will hold the eggs and stop them rolling away. “There.”

“Ugh, I _hate_ that rancid stench,” Crowley mutters behind him.

Looking back, Aziraphale finds him lying on his back and breathing more evenly now, body relaxed.

“Do you need anything, sweetie?” he asks, rubbing his arm. “A drink of water? Or a spoonful of honey perhaps?”

Crowley actually smiles at that and shakes his head. “I told you to stay off of those childbirth blogs.”

“Well.” Aziraphale shrugs.

“I’ll take some water.”

Azirapahle is all too eager to hold the glass for him, moving the straw to his mouth so Crowley can take a sip with minimal effort.

“Thanks,” he says, nodding afterward.

Aziraphale sets the cup aside. He’s feeling better about this whole process, now that he’s witnessed the first egg. He hopes, as well, that Crowley is happy to have him here, though he’s understandably preoccupied with the physical effort.

The second egg proves to be far more challenging.

Crowley’s relaxation break comes to an abrupt halt when he tenses up and hisses, grasping fistfuls of blanket. His vulva is gaping again, but there’s no noticeable bulge just yet.

“Ah, fuck,” he grunts. “It’s a large one. Damn it.”

“Oh,” is all Azirapahle can think to say. “Are .… some of them much larger than others?”

Crowley nods, his brow scrunched with discomfort and his jaw clenched tight.

A short time later, he’s whimpering and groaning while his hips twist this way and that, as though he’s trying in vain to shake the egg out.

“Fuck,” he snaps again.

Knowing that it might very well be the wrong move, Aziraphale takes a risk and scoots closer to Crowley, lying down beside him and gently embracing him from the side.

“Don’t try to rush it,” he soothes. “It’ll come. Just breathe and try to let your muscles relax.”

Crowley whimpers in reply. “I hate this.”

“I know, darling,” Aziraphale says, stroking his arm. “It’ll all be over soon.”

At the next violent contraction, Crowley cries out like he’s been stabbed, and then he takes up a blanket and pulls it fully over his head, hiding his face from sight.

Aziraphale takes this as his cue to sit up again, keeping his hand on Crowley’s shoulder in silent support.

Looking down, he sees that Crowley’s vulva is now bulging far more than it was with the first egg, though no shell is visible yet. As Crowley thrashes again, howling in pain from beneath his blanket, Aziraphale desperately wishes he could do something more to help his poor husband.

“It’s getting closer,” Aziraphale offers, realizing a moment later that he merely stated the obvious.

He can’t wait for this egg to be out so he can pull Crowley into his arms and comfort him.

The next half-hour seems to pass in slow motion, but finally, Aziraphale starts to see a new sliver of pale shell in Crowley’s opening.

“Ah, _there_ it is,” he says with triumph. “I can see it, now.”

Crowley takes a few ragged breaths and then bears down again, grunting with the effort, and his bulge becomes more pronounced, the sliver of egg protruding outward but not growing in size.

“Fuck!” he shouts in frustration, banging his fist into the blankets and thrusting his hips a few times.

When he relaxes, the bulge resettles just as it was before, and the sliver of shell disappears from view.

“It won’t move,” he whines, his breaths coming in anguished gasps.

“It will,” Aziraphale says. “Just rest a moment and try again.”

In direct disobedience of the suggestion to rest, Crowley is promptly grunting and pushing again, his whole body trembling with the strain. This time, as the egg bulges beneath the skin, a bit more of the shell is visible in the center of the opening.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale says. “It’s closer this time. You’re doing it.”

Again, when Crowley relaxes, the bulge settles, and the egg slips back again, hidden from sight. Crowley pounds his fist on the blankets again, and this time, it causes the one covering his head to fall away, exposing his face.

“Do you see, now?” he wheezes.

Aziraphale reaches over to pet his hair. “Not at the moment, but it was more visible that time.”

“No,” Crowley says with a little growl. “Do you _see_ how fucking awful this is?”

“Oh, yes, dear. I see. I’m so sorry. I’m here for you.”

Crowley bears down once more, again wailing through clenched teeth, and this time, Aziraphale can see a much larger stretch of shell emerging. It’s nearly crowning, but not quite.

“There it is! That’s it! It’s so close, Crowley.”

Crowley’s frantic breaths are coming as whimpers now, and he whines in reply, still pushing.

The egg isn’t advancing, and Aziraphale will be damned if he’s going to let it slip back in again.

“I’m going to try to help,” he says, moving closer to Crowley’s waist. “I’m going to touch you. Don’t stop pushing.”

He doesn’t wait for Crowley to respond, since he’s pretty sure words aren’t possible right now, and gently places his hands on either side of the bulge. He finds Crowley’s scales smooth and warm and carefully tries to push the tissue back, away from the egg.

At first, he accomplishes nothing, and he’s stunned by how _tightly_ the egg is held in place. No wonder it’s so difficult.

Making sure not to press on the shell itself, he adds more counter-pressure, hearing Crowley cry out again as he does, and the opening around the egg actually recedes a bit, bringing it to a full crown.

“That’s it,” he says. “Give me all you’ve got.”

He hopes he’s not crossing a line by participating in this way, but if he is, he’ll only need to learn the lesson once.

Crowley obeys, letting out the most agonized howl so far, and with Aziraphale’s hands in place, pressing the skin in the opposite direction, the large egg fully emerges, finally, and falls away from Crowley’s body. Some dark fluid and blood follow, and Crowley sobs with relief.

After quickly setting the egg aside—it’s about 50% larger than the first, Aziraphale observes—he moves eagerly back to Crowley’s head, leaning down to kiss his brow and cheek, wiping away the tears with his thumb just after. He takes up a damp cloth and uses it to mop his brow, and Crowley seems too weary to react to any of this.

Reclining beside him again, Azirapahle tries once more to gently embrace him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. This time, Crowley leans into him, returning the embrace and burying his face into Aziraphale’s chest, still panting. Aziraphale can’t help but smile, rubbing Crowley’s back and holding him close.

When he realizes Crowley is softly sobbing, though, his smile quickly fades.

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale says. “You’re halfway there.”

After a while, Crowley relaxes against him, and he’s so still that Aziraphale wonders if he’s fallen asleep. But then he sighs and shifts, moving his face to a dry spot on Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Was it alright that I helped in that way?” Aziraphale asks cautiously.

Crowley nods against him. “Thank you.”

Following the large egg, the next two come a bit more easily, as both are much more reasonable in size—slightly smaller than the first one, even. Each time they reach the crown position, Azirapahle assists again, pressing the skin away from the egg, and both times, it proves effective at helping them emerge more quickly.

After the release of the fourth and final egg, Crowley’s whole body goes limp and he lies gasping with ragged breaths while Aziraphale adds the egg to the bundle to the side. Looking back, he turns his attention to Crowley’s opening, raw and bleeding, and tries to miracle-heal it. Happily, it works, and the wounds appear to close.

When that’s finished, Crowley’s tail shifts back to two legs, and he lies still, panting and naked. His torso has reverted to its normal state, stomach flat like nothing was ever different.

Aziraphale retrieves the cup of water and offers him a sip, which Crowley accepts, head flopping back to the floor afterward. He looks thoroughly exhausted.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “I’ll take you to bed now, if you like.”

Crowley nods without opening his eyes, and Aziraphale miracles him a new and wonderfully soft pyjama set, then gathers him gently into his arms and pops them both over to their bedroom. Easing Crowley into the bed, Aziraphale climbs in beside him, holding him and kissing his temple.

“Angel,” Crowley mumbles, managing a partial embrace with one arm. “Stay. Stay here. Alright?”

“Of course, darling. I’m not going anywhere. Just rest, my love.”

~~~

Crowley awakens sometime later to find that he’s still in Aziraphale’s arms, and shifting to look up at him, sees his husband smiling down at him.

“Hi,” Aziraphale says fondly.

“Hi,” he answers. “How long have we been—?”

“Just a few hours,” Aziraphale answers. “How are you?”

“I’m .… fine.”

It’s the best answer he can give. In the aftermath of the ordeal, he always has mixed emotions. He’s relieved it’s over, for one thing, but he feels so repulsed and violated that it’s difficult to be genuinely happy about anything. He normally ends up feeling numb for a while.

Azirapahle presses a kiss to his forehead.

Crowley has to admit that having him there improved things. He had drastically underestimated how much it would help just to have emotional support, to have someone to talk to, while he labored on the eggs. And the way Aziraphale had sprung to action and physically helped get the eggs out was surreal in hindsight.

“How are you?” Crowley asks.

“I’m perfectly well,” he answers with another warm smile. “Proud of you.”

Something about Aziraphale’s cheerful tone irritates Crowley. He remembers, suddenly, that he also called the eggs _beautiful_ and inwardly cringes at the thought.

Sitting up and placing his feet on the floor, he slowly gets out of bed.

“I’m going to go destroy them,” he says bluntly.

“Do you need any help?”

“No.”

The fire pit on their back patio makes quick work of the destruction, as the eggs readily ignite and then crumble into ash when placed in the fire. It’s the best way Crowley ever found to get rid of them. He hates touching them, hates seeing them at all, but knowing that they’re gone brings mild satisfaction. Good bloody riddance.

Back in the kitchen, he finds that Aziraphale has fixed some tea.

“There you are!” he says, setting a cup and saucer on the table.

Crowley sits and takes up his cup, trying a sip and finding it pleasant enough. Part of him just wants to climb back into bed and hibernate for a few days, though.

Aziraphale sits down across from him, smiling and sipping his own tea, and once again, Crowley finds his mood a bit off-putting. He had been so reluctant to let Aziraphale see, imagining that he’d be shocked or upset by it—maybe even appalled. Crowley had never once imagined that Aziraphale would _enjoy_ himself, and the very notion of it draws up a strange flare of anger.

“Are you sore at all? In any pain?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley shakes his head. “Just tired.”

“Good,” Aziraphale says, nodding. “I’m so grateful you allowed me to be there with you. It was fascinating to witness, truly, and I’m so happy I could help you, however slightly—”

“Stop,” Crowley says firmly, avoiding eye-contact.

“Wh— Sorry. Stop what?”

“Stop .… talking about it like that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, setting down his teacup. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it in any way.”

Crowley groans in frustration. “I mean stop with all those words like _fascinating_ and _beautiful_ and what have you, alright? Just stop. It’s not any of that. It’s literally just Hell fucking with me. It’s grotesque, awful, _pointless_ apart from my suffering. Stop being so bloody optimistic for five seconds. You can’t put a positive spin on this, alright? It doesn’t exist.”

The words fall out in a harsh, bitter storm, and Crowley is angry-crying by the end. Aziraphale looks more sorrowful than Crowley has seen in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, dropping his head to his hands. “I’m not angry at you, just the rest of it. Ignore all that.”

“No, Crowley, _I’m_ sorry,” Aziraphale says sadly. “I’m so sorry. I never, ever meant for it to sound like I was celebrating your pain, and I realize now that it did.”

With that, he gets up and comes around to Crowley’s side of the table and drops to his knees, taking Crowley’s hand in his. Crowley looks at him, eyes blurry, and returns his grasp.

“Let me explain myself,” Aziraphale says. “Now that I’ve seen you through it, I’m deeply sorry that you have to endure that with any regularity, and it pains me to know that you were alone every time before. But I’m so glad that we’re married, perhaps now more than ever. Because we don’t have to face _any_ hardships alone anymore. Do you know that traditional wedding vow? _In sickness and in health?_ That’s how I see it: When you’re ill, since I think this qualifies as an illness of sorts, I get to be there to help you. I would take it all away if I could, somehow, but as long as you’re stuck with it, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but by your side. Because you’re my husband, and I love you so much. And that is what I’m happy about.”

Crowley leans out of his chair into Aziraphale’s arms, dropping to the floor to embrace his husband. They’ve never just sat on the kitchen floor hugging and crying before, but marriage is full of firsts.

“I’m glad,” Crowley says softly, “I’m really glad you were there.”

Aziraphale pulls back a little so that he can kiss him, and Crowley eagerly returns the affection. They go back to bed shortly after, and Crowley nuzzles his husband as he runs his fingers through his hair.

They both fall asleep this time.


	2. 2171

Aziraphale has just sat down to an afternoon treat, a cup of tea and some buttery scones, when he hears a crash from upstairs.

Abandoning his snack for the moment, he hurries up the steps to the second floor, already suspecting he knows what this is about. Crowley is within the window for his once-per-century ovulation ordeal, and Aziraphale has long been bracing himself for the day.

He finds his husband in his music room, a cozy little lounge where he keeps neat shelves of all his albums, various types of listening equipment, and a lovely assortment of houseplants.

Crowley is sitting on the floor beside a messy pile of antique CDs and an overturned monstera. He’s looking at the rug, his long scarlet hair obscuring his face.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, dropping to sit beside him. “Are you alright?”

“It’s starting,” is all he says in reply.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. Are you in pain?”

He shakes his head. “Not at the moment.”

Aziraphale touches his shoulder. Crowley sighs and rubs his hands over his face.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, voice quivering, “that we have to cancel Paris.”

They had tentatively planned to go on holiday the following week.

“Oh, never mind that! We knew it was a risky time to think of traveling. We’ll go next month, when you’re feeling right as rain. And even better, you won’t have this looming on the horizon, hmm?”

Crowley doesn’t respond. With a sudden jerk of his leg, he kicks the monstera pot, and it rolls across the room. Afterward, he succumbs to bitter sobs, shoulders heaving, and he leans into Aziraphale, who pulls him into a tight embrace.

Sometime later, they’re still there on the floor, Aziraphale holding his husband, who has calmed, only after soaking Aziraphale’s entire shirt. Aziraphale says nothing, rubbing his back and kissing his hair, letting him work through the grief.

After lying silently for a while, Crowley sighs.

“If you don’t mind doing the baths …. and the salve again,” he says slowly, “I’d like that.”

“Of course I don’t mind!” Aziraphale says. “Anything you want, my love. We’ll get through this together.”

Crowley raises up and kisses him. When Aziraphale gets a look at him a moment later, his sweet face is still sad and rosy from crying. It seems like a good sign, though, that Crowley asked about those things immediately.

“In fact,” Aziraphale goes on. “If you’ll come down to my study, I have a few things to show you.”

~~~

Following his husband downstairs, Crowley is genuinely curious what Aziraphale has up his sleeve. If it’s merely a distraction from his current mood, it’s already pretty effective, he muses.

When they arrive in the study, books and papers all strewn about in contrast to Crowley’s neat lounge, nothing appears out of the ordinary.

“Just a moment,” Aziraphale says, crossing over to his shelves and retrieving a few texts.

Crowley drops to sit on his favorite sofa and curls his legs under himself. Shortly, Aziraphale joins him with a stack of notebooks.

“After last time,” Aziraphale begins. “I took it upon myself to do some research. Reading up on the anatomy of various types of creatures that lay eggs. Reptiles, of course, but also mammals and birds, since your anatomy didn’t appear strictly snake-like. It’s all here in these notebooks if you’re interested, and I must say, I learned a lot of fascinating things. In the end, though, it led me to one primary idea.”

Crowley nods, interested. He’s long known how absorbed Aziraphale becomes in any sort of research, but he had no idea that he was working on this.

“I’m thinking that, if you’re comfortable with it,” Aziraphale goes on, “you could transform to your tail a few days early, to give your serpent body time more to adjust and ready itself. I’m not certain it would make a difference, of course, but I do wonder if it might help you go into labor sooner than usual.”

Crowley blinks, surprised.

“Just a thought, of course. I insist on nothing.”

“No, it’s certainly worth a try. I do usually put it off until the last minute.”

Aziraphale smiles at that. “Splendid! Now, let me retrieve the second … item.”

With that, he’s up from the sofa again, and rummaging around in another corner of the study. While he’s occupied, Crowley takes up one of the notebooks and flips it open. Inside, he finds extensive, scribbled notes, plus labeled sketches of serpents and various reproductive anatomy. The other two notebooks are equally thorough. Aizraphale must have spent ages on this and never mentioned a word of it until now.

Just then, Aziraphale is scooting an oddly shaped object, obscured by a sheet draped over the top, to the middle of the room.

“This,” he says brightly, starting to lift the sheet, “is what I’m most excited about.”

Crowley is newly intrigued, but Aziraphale’s posture goes suddenly rigid, and he drops the sheet back in place. When he turns to face him, his expression is a picture of remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean _excited_. I shouldn’t have said that. I know how awful this is for you. I only—”

“Angel, it’s alright,” Crowley says, standing to face him. “Let’s see what you’ve got under there.”

Aziraphale’s concern seems to subside, and he returns to withdrawing the sheet.

“Ta da!”

At first, Crowley isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at. It’s a bit like a massage chair, only the dimensions and cushions are all odd.

“It’s a birthing platform,” Aziraphale explains, just as Crowley had put it together. “The headrest is covered, so that you can hide your face, and this pocket here can be filled with herbs, so that you don’t have to see or smell anything. And these are the armrests, of course, with handles you can grip for extra leverage. Then there’s the large, concave cushion for your stomach, which I hope will be soft enough to be very cozy, and the gap just here is the, erm, _expulsion_ zone. Below that is a cushion rest for the thigh-area of your tail, and at the very bottom is a short column, where I thought you might want to coil the rest. We can make changes, of course, if anything needs adjusting. That is, if you decide to use it at all.”

Crowley isn’t sure what to say. Everything about the chair makes sense and looks right—far nicer than writhing on the floor, certainly.

“You _made_ this?”

“Indeed. I started with a simple massage chair and … _tweaked_ until I was satisfied.”

Crowley walks slowly around the chair, observing it from every angle and running his fingers over the headrest. Even with the odd shape, everything about it looks … cozy. He decides to try it out, because why not?

Lowering himself into place is a little awkward with legs instead of a tail, but otherwise, the chair is even more comfortable than he expected. And the grips that his hands naturally come to rest on are nice and sturdy; he can already imagine how much better this position will be for pushing the eggs out.

Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley has never approached his ordeal like a solvable problem, has never considered any alternatives to lying on the floor, writhing in agony for however many hours it takes. And even if he had tried to think of some other way, he’d never have come up with a special egg-birthing chair in a million years.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale says, perhaps nervous in his silence.

Crowley stands from the chair, and in reply, pulls him into a hug.

“I think it’s wonderful. I’ll definitely use it.”

“Oh, good!” Aziraphale says, kissing him.

“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“There’s no need, anyhow,” Aziraphale says with a proud twinkle in his eyes. “Knowing I’m helping you is beyond thanks enough.”

~~~

For Aziraphale, the first two weeks of Crowley’s pregnancy are far and away an improvement over last time. Crowley doesn’t withdraw from him now, doesn’t try to hide, and the two of them carry on their normal routine with a few adjustments—not going out at all, mainly, in addition to the things Aziraphale does to care for his husband.

Crowley is enjoying his daily baths and salve applications, and whenever he’s overcome by a flash of pain, he lets Aziraphale hold him, squeezing his hand and screwing his eyes shut until it passes.

They pass evenings snuggled close together on the sofa, sometimes watching a film, or sometimes with Aziraphale reading out loud to Crowley, who dozes off halfway through the story and then blames Aziraphale for having such a relaxing voice. They hit pause on their sex life just like last time, but there’s plenty of passion in its place, and Aziraphale is on Cloud Nine to think that Crowley feels safe and trusting enough now.

It almost feels too good to be true, but he finds himself thinking that this terrible condition has genuinely brought them closer as husbands.

One afternoon, he’s just sat down to a plate of warm biscuits that he baked moments before, taking a bite and relishing the sweet, gooey dough. Shortly, Crowley pokes his head in, and Aziraphale beams, gathering that the alluring scent roused him from his nap.

But when Crowley sits down across from him, he looks uncertain about something.

“You alright?” Aziraphale asks, taking another bite immediately after.

Crowley nods. “I’m fine. I was just thinking about our symphony reservation for this weekend. You should still go. I know how you were looking forward to it.”

Aziraphale gives him a look, answering with his mouth full. “We don’t have a symphony reservation anymore; I gave it away.”

“You what?”

“I gave it away!” Aizraphale says, laughing and then swallowing. “Stop worrying your pretty head and have a biscuit.”

A little smile tugs at the corners of Crowley’s lips, and he takes up one of the biscuits and tastes it.

“Those _are_ really good.”

Aziraphale sips his tea, eyeing Crowley over the brim. He must have been under a dark cloud to think that Aziraphale would even consider leaving him alone.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, reaching out to take his hand. “I’m right where I want to be.”

Crowley gives him a sheepish nod at that. “So am I.”

~~~

To Aziraphale’s great but inward delight, Crowley agrees to shift to his snake tail a few days earlier than he normally would, when he’s just three and half weeks pregnant.

Aziraphale miracles their bed longer so that Crowley can sprawl out at full length, and Aziraphale is lying beside him rubbing his round belly with the salve, enjoying how relaxed and cozy his husband looks. Crowley’s long hair is splayed around his head in a lovely way, and on their pale green sheets it’s a bit like he’s lying in a meadow, as lovely as a painting.

As he gently sweeps his hand across the underside of Crowley’s stomach, taking great care not to put too much pressure on the tender skin, Aziraphale suddenly has another idea.

“If you’d like,” he says with a deliberate demure, “I could try some a bit … lower, as well.”

Crowley opens his bright eyes at that and gives Aziraphale a skeptical look. “Are you … _seducing_ me?”

“No, certainly not,” Aziraphale says. “ _Unless_ you’d like to be seduced.”

Crowley laughs at that, a bit of color rushing to his cheeks. He’s so beautiful when he smiles. Aziraphale presses a kiss to his cheek.

Crowley looks hesitant. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it.”

“Just a whim,” Aziraphale says. “Nevermind if you don’t like the idea.”

Crowley sighs and then leans in to a new kiss, this time joining their lips and lingering a while. That feels like a yes.

“Alright,” he says, perhaps a bit playfully. “Let’s try it, at least.”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says. “Do let me know if anything feels remotely unpleasant.”

Crowley nods and lies back on the mattress again. Taking up more of the salve, Aziraphale rubs the base of his stomach again, where the touch will feel familiar, and then slowly slips his hand down to the slit in Crowley’s scales.

As he runs his fingers along the opening, Crowley lets out a soft, happy sigh, and Aziraphale takes that as encouragement to continue. Slipping the tip of one finger inside, he finds it warm and moist—far more human than reptilian, as he expected. The smooth membrane skin within is supple and welcoming, easily accommodating one finger, and then another, and after some light massaging, the vaginal lips start to show, pink and engorged.

“Oh…” Crowley moans softly, arching his back a little. “That’s … really nice.”

Aziraphale smiles at that, noting some surprise in his voice—he gleans that Crowley has never experimented with pleasuring himself in this form, which is a slightly sad thought, but one that makes Aziraphale all the more glad that his darling is willing to let him forge this new path.

“Good,” he says, dipping to press a kiss to Crowley’s neck while working his hand steadily inside.

Given the human-like appearance of the vulva, Aziraphale tries brushing his thumb across the upper point, where a clit could theoretically be. When Crowley purrs at that, he tries it again with a bit more pressure. At that, Crowley is happy-hissing and then moaning more loudly.

“That’s so—” he starts and stops, “how are you— _fuck_ , angel!”

Aziraphale just smiles, continuing to move his two fingers gently inside while rocking the pad of his thumb on the clit. Crowley reaches for him, then, and Aziraphale dips to kiss him. Crowley kisses back _hard_ , grabbing him by the shoulders and humming in the kiss.

“Ah,” Crowley gasps again, leaning back again. “Heaven, I’m really going to fucking come from this.”

“ _Good_ ,” Aziraphale says again, increasing the speed of his movements just so.

Crowley cries out again, eyes screwed shut and back arched, and when he comes moments later, it’s a glorious symphony of joyful moaning, and Aziraphale can feel him pulsating around his hand. When Crowley’s body goes limp, Azirphale withdraws his hand, letting his fingers linger over the lips for just a moment and feeling Crowley shiver in response, and then pulls his husband into his arms, pressing a kiss to his temple.

~~~

Crowley isn’t certain when he fell asleep, but he wakes up with a jolt at a sudden, fleeting stomach pang. Sitting up, he rests his hand on the side of his abdomen on impulse—it felt different from a normal growing pain.

“You alright, dear?” Aziraphale asks, rubbing his back.

Crowley nods, but just then, there’s another—and there’s no mistaking it. The eggs are shifting lower, moving into position.

“I think I’m … in labor.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale remarks in surprise.

“Four _days_ early,” Crowley adds. He’s not sure if the early transformation did it, or if it was the unexpected orgasm. Perhaps both.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale says, “I haven’t set up the nest yet. I need to gather the blankets and move the char in—”

“Go on then, I’ll stay here a while.”

“Oh … no,” Aziraphale says, slipping an arm around Crowley’s shoulders. “I’m _not_ leaving you.”

He sighs with resolve and shuts his eyes, concentrating a while.

“There,” he says, opening his eyes again. “It should all be in place.”

“You … did you _miracle_ the birthing nest ready?”

That’s a great deal of effort to consolidate items he could have gathered by hand in a few minutes.

“I certainly did. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go.”

Crowley isn’t too keen on getting out of bed, but another labor pang provides adequate motivation. They go together to the living room, where Aziraphale’s nest of blankets and birthing chair are waiting. The sunlight is spilling in through the windows in a lovely, calming way, and Crowley gives his husband a side-eye, wondering if he adjusted _that_ as well.

He’s surprised at how genuinely curious he is to try the new birthing chair, and pleasantly surprised all over again when he finds how comfortable it is, how perfectly he fits into it. The round, padded bowl where his sore stomach rests provides the perfect level of support and warmth without too much pressure. His hands come to rest on the sturdy handles again, his elbows relaxed on the armrests, and coiling his tail around the cylinder base is almost second nature. Settling into the headrest, Crowley finds that it does completely shut out his view of his surroundings, and the mixture of herbs within is pleasant without being overpowering right below his nose. Aziraphale really thought of everything.

Just then, a blanket is being draped across Crowleys’ shoulders. He lifts his head to find a quilt he’s never seen before.

“What’s this?”

“One last surprise,” Aziraphale explains. “I made this by hand and stitched herbs into the squares. It shouldn’t be too warm, but do feel free to set it aside if it’s too much.”

Crowley marvels at the quilt, done in red and blue paisley with a beige trim, running his fingers along the soft edge. It does feel nicer to be under a blanket, so that his body isn’t so exposed, he realizes belatedly. It’s much more comfortable this way, and the faint fragrance of the herbs is calming.

“I don’t know how to thank you for all this,” he says softly.

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale says, taking his hand, “knowing that I’ve helped you in any way is all the thanks I need.”

Crowley squeezes his husband’s hand in his, and then buries his face in his nice headrest as another contraction takes hold. He’s not sure if it’s wishful thinking, but it seems to be progressing more quickly than usual.

When the pang passes, Aziraphale pulls up Crowley’s long hair for him, piling it into a bun on the top of his head. After it’s secure, he pets Crowley’s neck for a while, running his fingertips from his hairline and down across his shoulders and back again, until Crowley is almost woozy with relaxation. If he weren’t about to expel his garbage Hell eggs, he’d think he was having a spa treatment.

Throughout the rest of his contractions and pangs, Aziraphale’s hands never leave him, reaching under the blanket to massage his lower back at times, then back to the neck or the scalp or the arms, and Crowley makes a mental note to do literally everything Aziraphale wants when they make it to Paris next month.

A sharper pang tells Crowley that the first egg has moved into place, and his grip tightens on the handles, which have a satisfying amount of give, like a firm stress ball.

“Oh, not long now,” Aziraphale remarks like some kind of psychic. Crowley nods in reply, taking a deep breath.

The first egg comes relatively easily, after Crowley has beared down just a few times. That’s fairly common for the first, though, so he doesn’t want to get overly optimistic about this. Aziraphale collects the egg with ease from his position in the front of the chair, setting it aside and returning to give Crowley a sip of water and rub his back again.

The second egg follows fairly swiftly and also requires only moderate effort, reaching the snug crown position after a few pushes and falling free with a little help from Aziraphale. Crowley would have never predicted, not in a million years, that he’d ever allow him to help with this, but now it’s already impossible to imagine any other way. It’s unfathomable to think of going back to how it was before.

“Thank you,” Crowley says, as Aziraphale mops his brow.

Aziraphale touches his shoulder and smiles. He looks rather dashing with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, but it seems an odd time to comment on that.

“Halfway there,” Aziraphale says, ever the optimist.

Crowley relaxes for a few minutes while his husband pets his neck again, but his respite comes to an abrupt end when a new pang sends a jolt of lightning through his abdomen. The third egg is lowering, and he can already tell it’s much larger than the first two.

A second sharp flash of pain confirms that, and Crowley grips the handles, wincing.

“Next one’s big,” he mutters through clenched teeth.

Aziraphale takes a moment to respond, and when he does, he places a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and says, “Here, dear. Lift your head a moment.”

Confused, Crowley raises up to look at him and finds that Aziraphale is holding a section of a leather strap. It takes Crowley a second to work out that he’s meant to bite down on it, and then he takes it with his teeth and resettles. When the next flash of pain crashes through his body, the strap proves its usefulness, and he lets his teeth dig into it.

The contractions that follow come in waves, ebbing and flowing, while Aziraphale rubs his back and neck all the while. Each time the pain rises in him, it’s like a deafening scream that radiates through his whole body before fading out again, leaving him whimpering in the chair and gripping and biting as hard as he can.

After it passes, he tries to push, but the egg is still too deep inside.

“It’s stuck,” he laments without dropping the strap.

“It’s not stuck,” comes Aziraphale’s voice, warm and calm, as his hand rubs Crowley’s back over the blanket. “It’ll come. Deep breaths. Relax as much as you can. You’ve been here before. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Crowley tries his best to follow his husband’s advice, taking in long shaky breaths and letting his body go limp against the chair. That’s another benefit of it, he acknowledges—it’s easier to feel where he’s tensing up and let the chair support him instead.

The pangs grow more frequent and more powerful, and Crowley thinks that must mean the egg is moving and Aziraphale is right. It’s not stuck, it’s just cleaving him in half in slow motion. In between blinding contractions, he lets his hands relax on the handles and finds that they’re trembling.

“It’s getting close, now,” Aziraphale says softly.

“Can you see it?” Crowley asks hopefully.

“Not the shell yet, but you’re swelling with the shape of it.”

Crowley groans at the answer and tries pushing again, and the pressure shoots harsh needles of lightning through his torso, shockwaves rolling out into his limbs and even making his ears ring for a moment. When he stops, feeling the egg slip backwards, he hears himself sobbing into the headrest, and he’s not even sure if it’s from the pain or the exhaustion or frustration at this whole mess.

“Oh, my poor dear,” Aziraphale is saying. “You’re doing so well. Every time it’s a little closer. I promise it won’t be much longer now.”

The contractions are coming in quick succession, now, and the next one takes hold just after Azriaphale’s kind words. Crowley bears down with great effort, and now the lightning bolts are replaced by flaming swords that threaten to slice him apart, and the egg is so enormous and it’s so tight, and it’s never going to come out, he’s going to discorporate before it does, it’s going to split this body open and destroy it—

“That’s it,” comes Aizraphale’s voice, breaking through the thundering in Crowley’s ears, “I can see it, now. It’s bigger than before, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You’re so close, Crowley.”

Crowley feels Aziraphale’s hands on either side of his opening, can feel how much the egg is straining it, and it feels impossible, it feels enormous. But Aziraphale is so calm, it must not be as big as Crowley is imagining.

Taking a break from pushing, Crowley goes limp against the chair again, and he can feel the large egg slip back inside.

“Almost there,” Aziraphale says. “Take some nice, deep breaths and get ready to give me a strong push on the next one, alright?”

Crowley nods, or at least he thinks he does. His head is pounding too much to really feel what he’s doing with it anymore. He takes a few more ragged breaths and then resituates, preparing to try again, and he feels a bit like Sisyphus, like he’ll be trying to push this egg out for eternity only for it to slip back again and again and again. Long ago, he learned the hard way that he cannot enlarge his body nor the opening itself in order to make the process easier—the eggs will only grow along with him.

Taking a firm grip on the handles, biting down on his strap, and squeezing the pole with his coiled tail, Crowley bears down once more, evoking the waves of burning pain that threaten to consume him whole. His heart hammers his chest and he wails into the headrest with the effort, pushing as hard as he possibly can, so hard that he thinks his eyes might bleed, and he faintly feels Aziraphale’s hands on his scales again, and he’s going to pass out, he can’t sustain this, he’s dying—

“There!” Aziraphale cries, and in that same moment, the tight, squeezing feeling subsides. “It’s free! It’s out!”

Crowley is left whimpering and panting in its wake, still gripping the handles in some kind of delirious confusion, and he can feel himself leaking from his wounded opening where he’s stretched and torn and tired.

In an odd, hazy movement, he shifts to sit upright and turn to look at the egg, without really deciding to do so. When he sees it in Aziraphale’s hands, though, he snaps back to reality. The egg is more than twice as large as one of his average ones. It’s fucking enormous, and for a second, he can only gape at it. An egg like that would have taken him a full day to expel in the past, and it probably would have cracked on the way out, filling him with liquid fire. It’s been ages since he’s seen one that big; it’s no wonder why it felt so impossible.

“Bloody fucking heaven,” he spits, “you said it was _just a little bigger_ —”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, turning back after he’s situated the massive egg beside the two small ones, “I didn’t want you to panic. I thought it might be better if you didn’t know.”

Azriaphale places a sympathetic hand on Crowley’s shoulder, his face deeply apologetic. His voice was so calm and so reassuring, Crowley realizes with a start that Aziraphale was hiding his own panic the entire time.

Lifting away from the chair, leaving his tail coiled as an anchor, Crowley pulls him into an embrace and leans into him. Aziraphale eagerly holds him, rubbing his back and kissing his hair, and sniffing a few times. He must have been acutely terrified to witness that massive egg emerging, Crowley gleans in hindsight, but he never once let it show.

“I couldn’t have done that without you,” Crowley says. “I mean it.”

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale says through tears.

As they wait for the final egg, which promises to be highly unpleasant given Crowley’s wounds—which he knows better than to heal prematurely, since any effort to repair himself will only backfire—Aziraphale gives him sips of cool water and mops his brow and rubs his back. Crowley is completely exhausted after that ridiculous egg, and he’s so ready for this to be over.

When a light contraction hits, he whines in annoyance.

“I want to go back to bed,” he says, turning his head to be heard.

“I know,” Aziraphale soothes, having regained his composure. “Soon, my love. It’ll all be over soon, and we’ll get you in some cozy pyjamas and you can sleep as long as you like.”

“Maybe a few decades.”

“That’s fine.”

The final egg makes its way downward, and it feels a bit like it’s scraping its way out since Crowley is so raw inside, but it’s nothing like the large one in terms of effort. He’s able to bring it to a crown position in just a few pushes, and then Aziraphale is helping it out, and it’s all finally done.

Crowley pants into his headrest for a while, weeping with relief, and then feels his wounds closing up as Aziraphale carefully heals him. When it’s done, Crowley peels himself away from the chair and transforms back to his legs. Aziraphale swiftly has him in the promised soft pyjamas, and then he’s gathering him into his arms, and shortly after he’s placing him back in bed.

When Crowley is once again lying in the soft sheets, he feels Aziraphale press a kiss to his forehead and then withdraw. In the absence that follows, Crowley mistakenly thinks Aziraphale has left him alone, and he opens his eyes with a start, looking quickly around to see his husband standing on the opposite side of the bed, wearing his own pyjamas.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Aziraphale says sweetly, climbing in beside him.

In reply, Crowley reaches for him and pulls him close, curling into him and letting Aziraphale draw him into a warm embrace. In his husband’s arms, he fully relaxes, feeling the glow of Aziraphale’s love engulfing him. Before he drifts to sleep, he smiles to think that it’s all behind him for the next century, and that they can have a nice trip to Paris soon.

~~~

Crowley is out like a light and Aziraphale holds him through the night, pressing kisses to his hair or rubbing his shoulder when he stirs slightly, so that he knows he’s not alone. As always, it pains Aziraphale greatly to think that Crowley ever had to endure the event or the aftermath all by himself.

He also wants to get it right this time, to be supportive in the way Crowley needs. Aziraphale can only imagine how drained and vulnerable he must feel after everything he went through—and particularly that awful, enormous egg.

When Crowley finally awakens, dawn is breaking outside. He hums as he stirs, stretching his neck a bit and then opening his eyes and smiling.

“Hi,” Aziraphale says.

“Hi.”

Crowley leans in to kiss him, and Aziraphale gladly reciprocates.

“Is it morning already?”

“Indeed. You seemed to sleep well.”

Crowley nods. “I’m so glad that’s over.”

“Me, too.”

“I better go take care of those eggs before they rot on the floor,” he says, sitting up and squeezing Aziraphale’s hand before he stands to go.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, inferring that Crowley would rather deal with that part privately. “I’ll make some breakfast.”

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, but there seems a happy twinkle in his eye. But perhaps it’s just the relief at having the event behind him.

In the kitchen, Aziraphale sets to making a nice breakfast for the two of them, with toast, sliced fruits, and little sausages. After he has it all set out on the table, though, Crowley still has not returned, so he goes to peek out on the porch and finds his husband curled up on one of the lounge chairs—under the herbal quilt Aziraphale made.

Stepping outside, he steps cautiously over to him, wondering if handling the eggs has soured his mood in some way.

“Crowley?”

At that, he stirs and looks up at him, smiling again and scooting over, lifting the blanket with his arm in apparent invitation, and one that Aziraphale gladly accepts, slipping under to lie beside him.

“You alright?” Aziraphale asks.

“Mm,” Crowley nods. “Just tired, still. And it’s so pleasant out here.”

With the morning breeze and the colorful sunrise fading to blue sky, it is objectively lovely.

“I’m glad you like this blanket,” Aziraphale remarks.

“I love it,” Crowley says in earnest. “I … I don’t know how to properly tell you how much I appreciate everything you did for me. I never knew it could be like that, truly. The chair, the herbs, everything was so incredible. I never would have thought of any of it.”

“Oh, darling, I’m so glad to have helped in some small way.”

“Not just a small way … I could have discorporated on that egg if I had been alone. Or if not, it might have lasted into today. You didn’t just help; you saved me.”

Aziraphale gathers Crowley into his arms at that, and they hold each other tight for a while.

“I love you above anything in creation,” Aziraphale says softly.

“I know,” Crowley answers, easily picking up on Aziraphale’s need for reassurance. “I love you just the same.”

They kiss, then, and it’s so passionate that Aziraphale briefly imagines that they might make love right there on the lounge seat. But surely not right after—

“Wait,” Crowley says suddenly. “Breakfast?”

“It’s all ready on the table.”

“Ah, shit, you should have said! I completely forgot with the bloody eggs, and the awful smell when they burn, and then I was so tired all over again—”

“That’s alright. It _is_ really nice out here.”

In the end, they bring the food outside and eat at their patio table in the morning sunlight. Crowley smiles easily when he mentions Paris, and they even laugh together about holidays of the past. All the while, Aziraphale is practically glowing with warmth to see how his husband has recovered so quickly this time.

He dearly hopes this bodes well for the future—that some part of the darkness has lifted, and Crowley’s future ovulation months won’t be such a nightmare for him any longer.

In fact, Aziraphale reflects as they collect the dishes and head inside as a light rain starts to fall, he’s going to make absolutely certain of it.


	3. 2269

Crowley is at his desk on the top floor of their cottage—which they expanded last century—when an odd flash of pain dances across the left side of his abdomen.

Sitting before his three large monitors, he waves his hand to close all windows at once, and swivels in his chair, rubbing his hand across his stomach. It’s early this time. There’s always a roughly three-year window wherein he’ll ovulate, and this time it’s come as early as it could—it’s not yet spring, even.

His heart sinks a little to think of how he’ll spend the next month, but then, there’s also a silver lining in getting it over with as soon as possible. And, well, he’ll be able to relax all spring and summer without this looming over him. Plus, Aziraphale has been a tad restless lately, as he often is in winter, and he’ll surely relish the chance to pamper Crowley with baths and salves and massages and whatever else he has in store this time.

Crowley smiles at the thought, and then it hits him: He’s no longer dreading it. He’d rather not do it at all, of course, but he has never before in his entire life on Earth been able to “look on the bright side” of this awful ordeal or even—fucking heaven—look _forward_ to certain aspects of it. But indeed, the thought of how his sweet husband will dote on him for the next few weeks brings up a pleasant fondness. The dark cloud has truly lifted, and he has Aziraphale to thank.

Leaving his desk, he heads downstairs to find his husband cooped up in his own study, glasses on and nose in a paper book—he’s slowly coming around to electronic texts, but he refuses to give up his library. Naturally.

As Crowley comes in, Aziraphale looks up and smiles warmly, and in that moment, Crowley reconsiders his intentions. As soon as he tells Aziraphale the news, it will mean waiting roughly a month before they make love in their normal way. One last time sounds too nice to pass up.

So, without speaking, Crowley drops to sit in Aziraphale’s lap and pulls him into a kiss. Aziraphale responds in kind, eagerly kissing back, and it’s not long before they're in bed, clothes discarded.

As they make love, Aziraphale above him and pressing tender kisses to his jawline as he rocks his hips, Crowley relishes every touch. After two and a half centuries of marriage, no part of this could ever feel trite. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but it seems as though Aziraphale is savoring the act right along with him; every kiss and caress and thrust is drawn out as though they’re his greatest indulgence. Then again, Aziraphale has always been one to lose himself to pleasure.

Lying together afterward, his husbands fingers idly combing through his long locks, Crowley sighs.

“That was really nice,” Aziraphale says.

“It was,” Crowley agrees, raising up to kiss him. “I have to tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“I’m ovulating.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, and he doesn’t seem nearly as surprised as Crowley anticipated. “So it’s earlier this time.”

“Did you know?”

“I suspected,” Aziraphale admits, sweeping strands of hair away from Crowley’s brow. “I could see the weight of it in your eyes when you came to me.”

Crowley resettles, curling into him again, and Aziraphale holds him, running his fingertips across his back and over again.

“Could be worse timing for warm baths, I suppose,” Crowley mumbles.

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale answers, pulling him into a close embrace. “There certainly could.”

~~~

The first two weeks of Crowley’s pregnancy progress as well as they possibly could, Aziraphale thinks. Crowley spends most of his time swaddled in warm blankets, enjoying massages or baths, or curled up on the sofa together. He seems to be more relaxed this time, to have let go of his past insecurities to a great degree that fills Aziraphale with pride and joy … and hope.

He would do anything for his husband. And, as such, he has a new proposition this time around, which he hopes Crowley will at least consider. But he suspects it’s not going to be an easy sell.

On this particular afternoon, he finds his husband lounging on the back patio with the weather dome engaged—a transparent, retractable roof that shields them from the freezing rain and frigid winter wind, while still permitting the sounds and smells of the surrounding environment through. An incredible invention only a couple decades old.

Underneath the invisible dome, the patio is warm and cozy, and the falling rain against the backdrop of the calm ocean waves makes for a wonderful ambiance.

There couldn’t be a more perfect time.

Aziraphale drops to sit beside Crowley on the lounge chair, and he smiles up at him.

“How are you, my darling?”

Crowley hums. “Not bad.”

“Good,” Aziraphale answers, petting his hair.

Crowley sits up, a bit more slowly than he normally would, and kisses him. “Out with it, then.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Am I so obvious?”

Crowley shrugs. “I can just tell when you’re trying to decide whether to ask me something.”

Aziraphale takes his hand, drawing in a long breath. “I do have something to ask. It’s … something new I think we could try this time around.”

“Of course it is,” Crowley says with a knowing smile. But Aziraphale only feels more cautious.

“I suspect you’re not going to like this idea straight away,” he admits. “But I do hope you’ll give it some honest consideration. And do keep in mind that it’s just an idea; it’s not something I’ll try to insist upon.”

“Aziraphale, what is it?”

He sighs again. “I’ve had the thought that, when it comes nearly time for your labor, we could switch bodies, and I could do it for you.”

Crowley’s smile gives way to confusion and he blinks. “What?”

“I mean it. I’ve seen your expulsion process twice over, now, and I feel that I have a fair handle on what to expect from it. So, given that, I could handle it myself, and you could finally be free of this.”

Crowley withdraws his hand, looking troubled. “No.”

“Crowley—”

“Aziraphale, no! The fact that … Fuck’s sake, the fact that you’d even offer this tells me that you do _not_ understand what it’s really like.”

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, readjusting. “I’m sure that’s true. I can’t possibly understand what it’s truly like without having experienced it. But I believe you when you describe it to me.”

Crowley shakes his head. “That’s … ugh, no. It wouldn’t be _better_ to watch my body do it from the outside.”

“Oh, goodness no, of course not! Did I not say that part? You wouldn’t need to be there at all; I’d do it on my own. You could take my body up to your music room and have some wine while you wait.”

“Are you fucking—? Do you hear what you’re saying right now?” Crowley gives him a look and then stands from the chair, pacing the patio, hands on his back. “This is completely insane. Do you not remember that I did this on my own for thousands of years and it was pure misery? You say you believe me about that, but how can you if you’re really willing to do it yourself?”

Aziraphale gives that some thought. “All those years, and I suspect even now, you experienced it as punishment, as a meaningless torment. That’s not what my experience would be. I would be doing it out of love for you. For that reason, I know I could bear it.”

Crowley gives him a look of pure sorrow at that, eyes glistening. Aziraphale stands and takes a slow step toward him.

“Just take some time to think. I know you’ve always wanted a way out of this—”

“Of course I have!” Crowley shouts, tears falling. “Desperately! Good lord, Aziraphale, don’t you see … don’t you see how _tempting_ this is?! I’d give almost anything not to do this anymore, but not if it means passing it on to you. I can’t do that to you. I can’t even think of you having to endure it.”

Aziraphale’s heart sinks to see his husband so upset. He steps closer, once more, and reaches out for him, and is deeply relieved when Crowley leans into the embrace.

“I’m sorry, my love. I won’t mention it again, alright? I just had to offer, because I would really do anything for you.”

“I know,” Crowley says softly.

Azriaphale rubs his back.

After a while, they go inside for some cocoa and talk of other things. Now that he’s planted the seed, Aziraphale does hope that Crowley might come around to the idea, someday, even if it’s not this century nor the next. He’ll keep his promise, though, and never speak of it again unless Crowley is the one to raise the topic.

~~~

For the next week, Crowley keeps turning over Aziraphale’s suggestion in his mind. On the one hand, the thought of being free of the labor and expulsion is so wonderful that he could cry, but imagining Aziraphale confined to his body, enduring it all alone is enough to bring up the opposite sort of tears.

He can’t stop going in circles about it.

Even though Aziraphale promised not to speak of it anymore, Crowley thinks he can see the faint disappointment in his eyes in some moments—like when he’s helping him dress after a bath or Crowley has a bad pang. Crowley does understand why Aziraphale would want to help him bear the burden, to take on part of it and carry it for him, and perhaps he’s right that doing it out of love would make it a wholly different experience. In fact, it’s also possible that simply being a principality would make some sort of difference, too, though Crowley cannot even entertain a guess as to how.

As his belly expands and his pain grows worse, the offer starts to become more appealing. If Aziraphale took it on and found it manageable, perhaps they could then alternate centuries, so that neither one had to bear it all the time.

That thought brings Crowley some peace, and so three weeks into his pregnancy, he decides to accept.

They’re on the sofa, and Aziraphale has just finished applying the relaxing salve, replacing the lid on the jar and setting it aside.

“Angel,” Crowley says with a sigh.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and we can try it your way this time.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale exclaims, face lighting up.

“But,” Crowley adds, placing a hand on his arm. “I have a few ... stipulations.”

“Yes, of course.”

“First, if any part of this is too much for you, you’ll tell me and we’ll switch back. And if you need help during the expulsion, and especially if an egg cracks, you’ll call for me to come in.”

Aziraphale is nodding. “Certainly.”

“And finally, even if everything goes well, you won’t do this for me every time. We’ll switch each century, to share the weight.”

“Crowley, what a lovely and sensible thought. It had not occurred to me.”

Aziraphale is far, far too excited about this, Crowely can see. But since he’s so keen on helping, they may as well give it a go.

“Also,” Crowley adds, “if we’re really going to do this, we should have a practice run now. To be sure it’s not going to backfire in some way.”

“Excellent idea,” Aziraphale says, extending his hand.

Crowley surprises himself by chuckling as he takes it in his own. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

So they switch bodies, just like they did back when they saved each other once before. Crowley feels himself flow out of his body and into Aziraphale’s with ease, and then opens his eyes, moving his arms and legs to orient himself.

As soon as he does, though, he feels a flash of pain in his abdomen and looks down to see that he’s still pregnant—the eggs have traveled with him into Aziraphale’s body.

“Well, _that_ figures,” he says. “So much for the new plan.”

In Crowely’s body, Aziraphale looks between the two of them in alarm, feeling Crowley’s stomach and finding it flat and decidedly un-pregnant.

“Wha— That can’t be— We did something wrong! Let’s try again.”

It’s so deeply strange to be looking at his own distressed face and hearing his own panicked voice that Crowley takes a moment to process.

“There’s no other way we could have done it, angel,” he says. “Here.”

With that, he extends his hand, and Aziraphale takes it. They switch back to their correct bodies, and the eggs travel once more.

“Alright, let’s try that again and this time, really focus on leaving them behind.”

Crowley is deeply skeptical. “I’ll try.”

They try again with the same result.

“Damn it!” Aziraphale cries in Crowley’s voice.

“That’s that, then,” Crowley says.

They switch back. Aziraphale is quiet, looking at his lap.

“I’m glad we know,” Crowley offers. “I’m glad we know it’s not possible.”

In response, Aziraphale uses both hands to wipe his face.

“But why,” he wonders desperately, “why isn’t it possible? It doesn’t make sense! The eggs are in _your_ body.”

“But they’re anchored to me,” Crowely says, keeping his voice even and calm. “Truthfully, I’m not shocked by this. I’ve tried to find a shortcut before, a loophole, but there isn’t one. The curse is mine and mine alone. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve known that for a long time.”

“No,” comes Aziraphale’s heartbroken response, tears dripping down his cheeks.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says, pulling him into his arms. “It was a really generous offer.”

“I wanted to help you,” Aziraphale sobs. “I wanted to help. I’m so sorry.”

“I know you did. You’ve already helped me so much in so many ways, sweetheart.”

“Crowley,” he starts and stops.

Crowley rubs his back. In all their years of marriage, he’s never seen him so devastated.

“I wish I could do it for you,” Aziraphale adds after some time, voice still strained. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They stay there on the sofa for a while, and after some time, Aziraphale calms. For his part, Crowley is relieved. Knowing that it’s not possible for Aziraphale to take it on makes it easy to forget the idea completely.

For him, at least.

~~~

Two days later, though, Crowley wakes from a nap on the patio and comes inside to find the cottage a little too quiet. There’s no smell of tea or cocoa in the air, no clinking of dishes, so he knows Aziraphale isn’t in the kitchen.

He finds him in his study—hears him sniffing before he even reaches the door. Poking his head inside, he sees Aziraphale at his desk with his head in his hands.

“Angel?”

“Oh, Crowley!” he says, standing and clearly faking a sunny disposition. “I didn’t hear you come in. How are you? Do you need anything?”

In reply, Crowley just pulls him into an embrace. It’s not the same with his protruding belly between them, but he holds his husband and strokes his back.

“Talk to me,” he says. “What has you so out of sorts?”

Aziraphale gives him a look through shimmering eyes. “You know what.”

“I didn’t know it was still weighing on you this much.”

Aziraphale sighs, dropping to sit on his sofa, where Crowley joins him.

“It seemed such a good plan,” Aziraphale says with a sad shrug.

“It was certainly very clever thinking on your part. Never even occurred to me.”

“But still pointless in the end,” Aziraphale says bitterly, taking Crowley’s hand. “I just hate that you’re stuck with this, and I can’t do _anything_ about it.”

It hits Crowley, then, that Aziraphale is only now coming to terms with something that Crowley has known for ages: the egg cycle is permanent and inescapable. Until now, Aziraphale had perhaps seen it like a challenge he could solve, but the harsh reality is finally sinking in.

“Oh, angel, that’s not true,” Crowley says, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You've helped me so much already! I can't even think of doing it without you anymore.”

“Oh, darling, I’m so glad,” Aziraphale says, newly crying, and pulls him into a kiss. “I’ll always look after you. You’ll never do it alone again, not ever.”

They sit leaning against each other for a while, until Aziraphale rights himself to wipe his face again.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to make this about me. I was just disappointed, that’s all. I’ll be fine. I’ll help you through the expulsion like always.”

Crowley shakes his head and presses a kiss to his cheek. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Just afterward, a sudden pang shoots through his abdomen, and Crowley takes a firm grasp of Aziraphale’s hand until it passes.

“You alright?” Aziraphale asks, rubbing his arm.

Crowley nods. “I’ve been thinking about something you said. That you’d be able to handle it because you’d be doing it out of love for me. I realized …. I could think of it the same way. This whole process is the price I have to pay to live here on Earth. And living on Earth is more than worth it, because you’re here with me. So, if this is what it takes to be here, then I fully accept those terms.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice wavering once more, “I’m so deeply glad you’re here with me. I’m so grateful.”

“Likewise.”

~~~

It’s a snowy afternoon when Crowley’s labor begins. Aziraphale helps him, as always, taking care to set aside his own remorse at not being able to switch bodies and focussing squarely on making his husband as comfortable as possible.

The first egg is relatively swift, slipping out after only a handful of pushes. After setting it aside, Aziraphale gives Crowley sips of water and mops his brow with a cloth, pressing a kiss to his cheek just after.

Under his new quilt, Crowley sighs and gives him a weary smile. The process has already improved so much since the first time, Aziraphale reflects. He’s so glad that they can share this, now. That they can be totally open. Even if there’s no way to ever take the burden off of Crowley’s shoulders, at least they can do it together.

He’s petting Crowley’s neck when his posture goes abruptly rigid, hands grasping the handles of his birthing chair—he whines just after.

“Next one’s larger, I think,” he mutters.

“Nothing you can’t handle,” Aziraphale soothes. “Breathe.”

Crowley’s coiled tail tightens around the base column of the chair, and his breaths become ragged. He must be in a lot more pain, now. Aziraphale moves to rub his lower back under the quilt, but just as he begins, Crowley lets out a newly miserable whine.

“Fuck,” he mutters, writhing in the chair, “fucking shit fuck. Damn it.”

Something is different; Aziraphale can tell. The quilt falls from Crowley’s shoulders with all the movement.

“Darling?” he tires, heart hammering his chest.

“FUCK,” Crowley shouts this time, lifting his head from the facerest with a growl. “It’s broken, I can feel— _FUCK_ —I can feel it burning … Get a— _MOTHERFUCKER_ —you need to get a _stone pot_. With water.”

“A … stone—?”

Just as Aziraphale starts to ask, some fluid leaks from Crowley’s opening and he cries out again, writhing as the blankets beneath catch fire from the droplets.

“ _Oh_.”

With no time to spare, Azirapahle conjures a stone pot from thin air. It takes a very specific type of visualization and concentration, but the one that ends up in his hands looks like it will do the trick—it’s made of solid, sturdy gray stone. For the water, he pours the rest of Crowley’s drinking cup, reasoning that he can refill that in a less urgent moment.

He swiftly holds the pot of water in place just below Crowley’s gaping opening, which is leaking more fluid and smoking from within.

“No,” Crowley says through clenched teeth, “not so close. Set it where I can see, and stay back.”

Reluctantly, Aziraphale leaves the pot beside the chair and moves a few paces back, watching as Crowley writhes in place. The quilt Aziraphale made is lying in a useless heap on the floor, and in this moment, he feels equally useless.

“Tell me when it’s visible,” Crowley says, face scrunched in pain.

“Not quite yet.”

He groans in reply, and Aziraphale keeps watch, hoping he’ll be able to give good news soon. Fluid is steadily leaking to the space below the chair, where the drops ignite for a few seconds before burning out and leaving behind ashen holes in the blankets. Belatedly, Aziraphale realizes the liquid must be doing something similar inside Crowley’s body, and he feels a new pit in his stomach.

After about twenty minutes, which feels more like twenty years, Aziraphale catches sight of the eggshell.

“There!” he exclaims. “I see it. Should I come closer, now?”

“No,” Crowley answers quickly. “Not yet.”

He bears down again, screaming through his teeth, and the egg advances slightly. Just afterward, he sits up straight in the chair, and extends one arm out to the side—to stretch, Aziraphale thinks for a moment, until he realizes that Crowley’s hand is transforming.

His human skin and dainty fingers give way to a reptilian hand, in scales that match his tail with pronounced knuckles and long dark talons at the tip of each finger. The transformation continues up to his elbow, his face a picture of distaste all the while.

Taking an angry breath, Crowley uses one of the sharp claws to pierce the shell of the egg, hooking through it, which immediately causes a new flood of noxious fluid. In one swift movement, he drags it out of his body, howling, and flings it into the pot, where it plops into the water and dissolves into sulphuric smoke.

Drawing ragged, agonized breaths, Crowley uses his clawed hand again to retrieve a couple more shards of shell left inside, flinging those to the pot as well. Aziraphale catches sight of the scaly fingers and notices that blisters have formed along the skin where the fluid touched—he can only imagine the effect it would have on human flesh.

With the contents of the pot nearly dormant, Crowley sinks into the chair, panting and whining. Aziraphale isn’t sure if he should come near, now, so he stays where he is, frozen.

Crowley musters the energy to heal his reptilian hand, and the blisters shrink and vanish. Afterward, his normal hand returns, and he sighs into his headrest.

“I fucking hate the broken ones,” he says.

Aziraphale starts to respond, but he can’t find his voice, and realizes too that the whole room has gone blurry. He feels a bit dizzy, perhaps from all the smoke, and he thinks for a moment that perhaps he should go to the lavatory to compose himself—

“Angel?” comes Crowley’s voice, newly concerned.

Aziraphale wipes his face. “I’m— I’m alright.”

He’s certain his tone wasn’t convincing, but before he can say anything more, Crowley is gathering him into his arms—he’s left the chair.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale responds, newly weeping, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything…”

“I know,” Crowley soothes. “It’s alright. It happens sometimes.”

“Oh, my poor dear,” Aziraphale says, and for a moment, he can only sob against his husband’s chest.

He doesn’t like that Crowley is the one comforting _him_ at this moment. He knows that this was what Crowley was afraid of all along—Aziraphale seeing something that he couldn’t handle and falling apart over it. He wants to be strong for him, but his strength did next to nothing while the egg fluid was burning Crowley up inside. He still wishes he could have done this for him, but after seeing that, he’s no longer so certain of his ability to get through it alone. And so with his thoughts spiraling, he just cries.

“Listen,” Crowley says, “the next two are not going to be easy. I’m all scorched in there, now. I need you. Can you stay here with me?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, finally starting to come back to himself. “Of course, Crowley. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I can’t do it without you,” Crowley adds. “Not anymore.”

“You won’t have to,” Aziraphale says, now able to keep his voice steady. “Not ever.”

They kiss, then, and Crowley holds Aziraphale’s face.

“Is your hand alright?” Aziraphale asks afterward, taking it in his own and turning it over.

“It’s fine,” Crowley says with a smile.

“You … you can’t heal the burns inside, as well?”

Crowley shakes his head, taking Aziraphale’s hand in both of his. “Not until this is over. Any healing just backfires.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says, nodding. He knew that.

Crowley flinches at the movement of the next egg and then swiftly gets back into place on the chair. His prediction turns out to be correct: even though it’s a normal size, the egg is far more difficult given the wounds caused by the previous one. Aziraphale does his best to comfort him, but he really can’t wait for this time to be over.

When the egg reaches a crown position and the tissue surrounding it is puckered, Aziraphale can see how inflamed and charred and blistered it is, and his heart sinks to imagine the pain. He takes a very careful approach to helping the egg out, but even his gentlest touch has Crowley writhing and hissing and crying out.

“I’m so sorry, my love.”

“It’s alright. Don’t stop helping.”

After the egg is free and Crowley has a brief respite, Aziraphale resumes mopping his brow and giving him sips of water, but something about it feels empty, now. As though he’s only helping in the most superficial way. A performative way, even. But he can’t get lost in those thoughts now—there’s one more egg to go, and then it will be over.

After Aziraphale has set the cup and cloth aside, Crowley reaches for him and grabs his hand.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Aziraphale isn’t sure how to answer that. He covers Crowley’s hand with this and nods.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Crowley adds, a hint of concern in his yellow eyes, partly obscured by strands of auburn hair.

Sweeping the hair away from Crowley’s face out of habit, Aziraphale looks him over and sighs.

“You needn’t keep reassuring me, dear. I’m here. I’ll be alright.”

Crowley nods, ever so slightly. “Some times are worse than others. The cracked ones are always rough, but they're rare, at least.”

Aziraphale hums at that; it’s not lost on him that this is unusual optimism coming from Crowley--he’s still trying to comfort Aziraphale, as though he might change his mind and flee from the room at any moment.

When the final egg emerges, Aziraphale feels as though he’s gone numb to the whole thing, that he’s merely going through the motions and mentally projecting himself into the future, when this is finally over. It’s not fair for him to be so detached, while Crowley is still in the thick of it, he knows. But it’s the only strategy he has left.

In the aftermath, he helps Crowley into bed as usual, where he’s promptly unconscious. Aziraphale stays beside him, rubbing his back as rivers of silent tears pour from his eyes. After previous egg-laying sessions, he’d quickly started dreaming up new ways to help his husband the next time, but now, the very edges of his mind felt frayed and hopeless. What help could he possibly be anytime an egg broke, since it would surely happen again? And how could he maintain a comforting and calm presence when he’d now be terrified of that very recurrence?

This is the price Crowley has to pay to live on Earth, he reminds himself; the price they’ll both pay. It’s worth it as long as they’re together.

With a gentle kiss to Crowley’s shoulder, Aziraphale shuts his eyes and prays, just for a moment, just in case it might help, pleading for any measure of mercy for his beloved demon.

~~~

In the aftermath of this time, Aziraphale is different. Crowley can see it in his eyes from the time they wake up together. It’s still there when Aziraphale makes tea, and still when they take to the sun room to enjoy the morning daylight. He’s looking after Crowley as usual, but his face is downcast, his normal bright energy diminished.

The whole ordeal is weighing on him, understandably. Crowley waits into the afternoon for him to say something, but Aziraphale never does.

“Shall I make us some lunch?” Aziraphale says, pretending to admire one of Crowley’s plants.

Crowley gives him a look from where he’s reclined on the sofa, but Aziraphale isn’t looking back.

“Angel.”

“Yes?”

“What are you ... doing?”

At that, Aziraphale faces him. “Well, nothing. Just wondering about lunch.”

Crowley wrenches himself upright. “Come here. Sit.”

Aziraphale is promptly beside him, and the cloud over his eyes remains. Crowley takes his hand.

“I know that was a really difficult one,” he begins. “That’s about as bad as it gets, and it’s not that way too often. I’m really glad you were with me.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s eyes are glimmering with tears.

“Oh, Crowley,” he says softly, squeezing the hand and shifting his gaze to his lap.

Crowley swallows. “But like I said from the start, if it was too much for you, I understand.”

In truth, it pains him to think of going back to expelling the eggs alone. But he has to give his husband this out.

“Oh heavens!” Aziraphale exclaims, turning to properly face him. “Crowley, no. No, my darling. I’ll never leave you alone. I’m just …. Well, I’m still processing, I suppose. I’m just so sorry I ever doubted how truly merciless it could be. I’m sorry there wasn’t really anything I could do, when it really came down to it. I’m … Oh. I’m so sorry that you have to bear this burden.”

He’s sobbing now, and Crowley pulls him into an embrace. “Angel, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Don’t you see? You’ve done so much for me. You’ve helped me more than I could have hoped for. I’ve spent millennia fearing this, dreading it, trying to forget, and thanks to you, I’m _not_ afraid anymore. I never thought I would say that. When it started this time, instead of being furious or upset, I just thought of all the ways you’d look after me, and I knew it would be alright.”

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale says through his tears, holding him close.

“I wouldn’t change a thing,” Crowley adds. “About who we are or where we’ve ended up.”

Aziraphale sniffs and then pulls back to press a kiss to Crowley's cheek. "Nor would I, my dear. I'm so grateful for you, for this life we have together."

"Me too, Angel. Me too."


End file.
